


Hairline Fracture

by inkedpenn



Series: Even the Birds are Chained to the Sky [1]
Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), George Harrison (Musician), The Beatles (Band), The Travelling Wilburys (Band)
Genre: (aka speed makes you not hungry), Alcohol, Angst, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-18 13:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18251162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedpenn/pseuds/inkedpenn
Summary: George notices that there's something wrong with Bob.Bob is less than helpful in straightening it out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place sometime in 1966. If you're looking for something realistic/well-researched, this ain't it.

George is giving him _that look_ again, the one that says, _I know what you did but I need to hear you say it._ Its too much, and Bob just- breaks down.

Well, as much as he ever breaks down, anyway. Which is to say, he tenses up for a split second, and silently looks away.

Have to bottle that shit up.

He knows, somewhere inside him, even if he doesn't really _know_ , that if he acknowledges it, everything will all come crashing down. Theres a hairline fracture somewhere, but if he finds it the whole thing will shatter and- well. He's not particularly inclined towards picking glass shards out of his skin.

He can't acknowledge it, he really can't, but George is giving him another look, and this one is harder to read. It sends an icy chill down his spine, fight-or-flight kicking in but he knows he could never hurt George.

Flight it is, then.

Except theres nowhere to run to, and he's not a little fucking kid. But he still needs to go, can't stay here, not with George giving him that _goddamn look_ , so his feet stay in place while his mind runs off to safer waters.

Hell if he can't do it now. After all, how has he been surviving so far?

_Oh right_ , he thinks; _I'm not._

Surviving is overrated anyway. All its gotten him is enough money for a runny nose.

Which takes him right back to George, standing in front of him in some beat-up hotel room halfway across the world from home. Asking him what is really, what really should be a simple question, yet its taken him this long to answer and that may be an answer in and of itself.

The question was rhetorical anyway. George already knows.

Its hard to miss, really, but nobody cares enough to say anything about it. They encourage it, actually, because if its getting Bob through the shows and the interviews, then its just more money in their wallets.

But by God, he wishes that their greed was at least a little bit more sustainable.

Though, he thinks maybe they'll make even more money once he's kicked it.

Well he certainly isn't going to be the one to disappoint.

George is coming closer, and that unreadable expression has shifted into something closer to concern. Bob crosses his arms across his chest, defensive, trying to put on that act of whatever people think he is. A damn good show, even if he has no clue what exactly it is.

"Look man, I don't know what you're talking about." He can't even look at George when he says it, desperately trying to detach himself from the situation. The most he can manage is a momentary glance, but then he sees the hurt on George's face and he can't stand it. He takes a step back, away from George, he's started to feel claustrophobic breathing the same air as him, the room suddenly feels to hot and he fleetingly thinks about opening a window. His thoughts are caught short, however, as George catches his eyes and now he can't look away. He starts to feel a little dizzy, and George has gone right back to concern- no, worry- and Bob thinks maybe he should sit down.

"Jesus, Bob, what have you eaten today?"

He hears the question, but also he doesn't really, the words getting all jumbled up and his head, and he thinks maybe he needs to lay down _right now,_ but before he can finish figuring out how to get over to the couch, his knees go weak and his vision blurs.

George rushes forward, catching Bob before he hits the ground. He helps Bob walk over to the couch- well, carries really, because he's pretty sure that he's supporting the entirety of Bob's weight. He kind of hopes that he isn't giving Bob enough credit though, because if that's really all that he weighs, then George might actually take him to the hospital.

He sets Bob gently on the couch, and briefly walks away to get a cup of water.

When he returns, Bob is already trying to sit up again, still dazed and pale, and if George wasn't so worried then he might be amused at how completely Bob it is.

Currently though, there's not much to be amused about. Bob's fingers are trembling as he reaches out to take the cup, and at this point there's so many different things that might be causing the shaking that he gives up on trying to figure out which exactly it is.

Bob stays silent, and George lets him; it's less that he's okay with what just happened, and more that he can't even find the words to begin the conversation.

After a few minutes of both of them attempting to look anywhere except for each other, George tires of the waiting game. He may be the quiet Beatle, but he's certainly no match for Bob.

"Bob." He glances nervously at George, feeling scrutinized and raw, nauseous at the knowledge that George is seeing him like this.

"Really, Bob, what have you eaten today?"

He sets the glass on the coffee table, trying for nonchalant but ending up somewhere closer to desperate. Water sloshes over the rim, soaking the table and his hand. He moves to stand up, to get something to sop it up with, but George catches his wrist in his hand and gently tugs him back down to the couch.

"It's just water, Bobby. It'll dry."

Bob responds with a noncommittal hum. He pulls out a cigarette, hoping that George doesn't notice when it takes his unsteady fingers a few tries to light it. Well, hopes that George doesn't say anything about it at least.

He thinks of the question he'd been asked. Jesus, what _did_ he eat today? Not enough, certainly, but they both already know that much and George is still eyeing him, waiting for a better answer.

"Uh. I mean, I had coffee this morning..."

"And what else?"

"Man, I'm fucking fine, alright?" He can't help but snap at George- he regrets it instantly, but George's face tightens and Bob thinks maybe his words had the opposite of their intended effect.

George stands up, and for a second Bob thinks that he's going to walk right out and leave him; but that wouldn't be very much like George at all, and either way George isn't heading towards the door. He walks towards a desk, unused in the corner of the room. He flutters through some of the papers cluttering thespace, flyers for take-out restaurants and ads for local tourist traps. Eventually he finds what he's looking for and comes back to Bob sitting on the couch.

Bob wants to roll his eyes when he sees the room service menu, but manages to restrain himself. Instead, he opts to raise one doubtful eyebrow at the other man.

"I'm getting you food, pick whatever you want," George says, intentionally avoiding making it into a question- Bob has always been good at evading those.

"I'm not hungry, man," he replies, but George is already picking up the phone and his stomach grumbles loudly, betraying him. George gives him a pointed look at that, and Bob finally does end up rolling his eyes and deciding to pick his battles.

"Fine, just- something small, just toast or some shit." Now it's George's turn to roll his eyes, but apparently he's also come to the conclusion to not fight Bob on this.

"And, uh. A glass of wine?" George considers this for a moment, not quite able to justify it, but adds it to the order anyway.

They sit in an uncomfortable silence until Bob's food arrives. He looks positively terrified at the prospect of opening the door, so George gets the food and brings it to him.

The uncomfortable silence continues once Bob begins to eat. Although, Bob must admit, it becomes slightly more tolerable now that he's got something to occupy his hands; though George doesn't look any happier about the situation than he did ten minutes ago.

"It's the- the amphetamine. I just... I don't get hungry anymore," Bob suddenly whispers, seemingly conflicted about whether or not he should have spoken at all. Belatedly, he questions whether or not the wine was a good idea after all- but it's not like one glass would have gotten him tipsy enough to say something like that. No, the only thing he can blame is his own fat mouth.

He feels a little better saying it out loud though, because hell, it's not like it's a huge revelation anyway. Just putting words to what they both already knew.

On the other hand, if he thought there was a hairline fracture earlier, now he's gone and put a sledgehammer through it.He immediately begins to get choked up, wishing he hadn't said anything; but now it's too late for that, so he'll have to live with that decision.

More or less, anyway.

He fidgets, waiting for George to respond. He lights up another cigarette, then another, while George is still just looking at him, trying to formulate a sentence adequate for what Bob just said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2! I'm not sure if I like this chapter as much as the first, but hey, I figure it's better than nothing. I hope y'all enjoy it!

Apparently, George decides that words are useless at this point, because instead of saying anything, he just leans forward and pulls the smaller man into a tight embrace. Bob is immediately struck by the urge to back away, unaccustomed to the physical affection. He manages to resist the temptation though, and nervously brings his own arms up to wrap around George.

The hug pulls at something deep in his chest, makes him ache in a completely new, yet somehow familiar way. He doesn't know what to do about it, how to make it _stop_ , so instead he just buries his face into George's shoulder. George's hands come up to tangle in his hair, gently petting and combing through the messy curls.

That's the straw that finally breaks the camels back for Bob, who starts sobbing against the solid warmth of George. He's coming down now, everything hitting him all at once, like his world is crashing down right along with him. Everything hurts, and he's so angry with where he's at, angry with the fans and his lackeys, and most of all with himself.

It cuts deep, the kind of anger that's like a fire lit under his skin, burning him up from the inside out. His veins have turned to embers, he's exhaling the ashes of his lungs. He wants to be better, wants to do better, can't understand why he's cracking under pressure; he's even more angry at himself for even thinking that, because what else can he do? He's suffocating, but he's only wasting his limited air complaining about how he can't breathe. It seems like everything is going dark now, he can't last much longer but doesn't have a choice; wants to run, trade places with someone, anyone, until he can glue himself back into one piece.

But George is there, soothing over his frayed nerves. Telling him that its alright, that he understands, knows the kind of fault lines that are tearing Bob up. He needs it, needs George right now, but at the same time he's too exposed like this. He wants to hide, George is trying to heal his shredded skin but Bob wants to let it scar over in peace. He's desperate, and afraid, but instead of running he just clings tighter to George.

He knows that he's putting a wet patch on George's shirt where his tears are falling, but he couldn't stop now if he tried. Everything is flowing out, everything he's tried to keep hidden and locked up tight, and he's so damn scared. Scared that George will run away, scared that if everything comes out, he'll have nothing left. He'll just be an empty shell, wandering; but then, he thinks, it's not like his current state is any better.

Eventually, the tears run out, and all that's left is Bob, completely exhausted, leaning into George. George, who's still running his fingers through Bob's curls, rubbing the other hand over his back, holding him close. He terrified too, afraid of losing Bob. Afraid that Bob's already gone, too far to save.

The amphetamine is really the least of it, if he's honest. It's just a symptom, of a much larger problem, one that he's not sure he can alleviate. And Christ, he's certainly not one to judge, he's done his own fair share of self-medication; but Bob has taken it much further than he ever has, gone from smoothing over rough edges to tearing himself apart, bit by bit.

George wants to pick up all those little pieces, to hold Bob until he's okay again. He's not sure that Bob will let him. Maybe that's what scares him the most, that Bob knows that he's doing this, but won't, or can't, stop.

He doesn't want Bob to push him away. He's already surprised that Bob's let him hold him for so long, had expected the other man to turn away by now. He doesn't want to press his luck, but he can't help but to hold Bob tighter, almost as desperately.

"Bob?"

"Hmm?" He looks up at George, eyes still wet with tears, surprised at the sudden sound, and its such an honest picture of Bob that George could almost cry himself.

"I'm worried about you," he whispers, afraid of scaring Bob, but needs to say it. Needs Bob to know how much he needs him. His face falls, and it damn near breaks George's heart.

"I-" his voice cracks, and the tears start flowing fresh, scab picked open before there's healed skin. "I'm worried too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may or may not be more coming, if I knew either way I would tell you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented and/or left kudos, y'all are what keeps me writing!  
> Warning, Bob's mental state here is... not good. AKA, he's thinking about suicide, so if that's a problem or will upset you, please stay away from this chapter. Sorry!

If George wasn't held so close against Bob, he wouldn't have even heard it, words pressed quietly into the air. He barely even hears it as it is, is unsure that he even heard it _right_ , until he looks down at Bob and his expression tells him everything he needs to know. He can see Bob searching for more words, and he waits for the smaller man to continue.

"I don't want to be like- like _this_ , anymore. God, I just-" He bites his lip and shakes his head, apparently deciding against whatever he had planned on saying. George won't let him get away with it that easily, though. He grabs his chin gently in his hands, forcing Bob to look at him.

"Just what?" Bob swallows uncomfortably, as if trying to swallow his words as well, afraid of being too honest. He doesn't even know what exactly he was going to say, really, had just opened his mouth and let the words fall out, and well- now he remembers why he doesn't do that anymore. He wishes George would stop looking at him for once, it's like he's expecting something but Bob doesn't know what, or won't let himself think too hard about it at least.

"Nothing," he whispers, voice cracking, looking away, and he really wishes that George wasn't as observant as he is; though, it's not like it takes a goddamn detective to figure out that Bob isn't alright. Maybe he just wishes he was better at hiding it.

Well, he certainly wishes that he was stronger, regardless. Strong enough to deal with all the bullshit that he's currently expected to put up with. He's never felt shame like this before, never felt this weak. Wants to fight it, but he's too tired; he'll just pop his pills quietly and hope no one says anything if he's twitchy all the time. He hates it, hates how it makes him restless and irritable, how any little thing is enough to set him off. He's always exhausted now, he can't get sleep anymore, like a man dying of thirst trying to clutch water between his fingers. Like his will to live falling through his bony hands. It's a cycle, he knows it, but he's helpless to end it and maybe that's the worst part of it all. He wants it to stop, just for a little while, so that he can clean up a little and get some real rest for once. But no, he just wakes up every morning as goddamn tired as ever, and tries to cover up for it with whatever he can.

All that shame just makes him angrier, because how could _anyone_ stand up to this? He's lasted pretty long, all things considered. He'd like to see how long anyone else could bear it. God, it's not like it's just him; seems like the whole damn industry nowadays, and if everyone is doing it, can it really be such a problem? Then again, not everyone is taking it as bad as him, worn through to skin and bone. He doesn't have the time to eat anymore, and he isn't hungry, so he just watches his weight drop to what seems to be a dangerous extreme. He wonders how long it'll take until he deteriorates entirely, tendons and ligaments falling apart until he's just a pile of dust, blown away in the wind.

But George is holding him together, for now at least. Holding him close, too, and Bob questions whether he's finally found someone who'll help him carry the weight of his cross. Someone he can trust. With the way that George is wrapped tight against him, keeping him warm, he doesn't know if he can hide it anymore. Instead, he just lets himself give in to it. Lets himself melt into George, knows that he looks weak but for once he protests against the urge to fight it.

George notices the change, sees some of the tension fall from Bob's shoulders. Feels his body slump against him, exhaustion finally taking over. For God's sake, he'd passed out not too long ago, and George thinks maybe now isn't the best time for all of this.

 _Then again, there's never a particularly_ good _time_ , his mind helpfully supplies.

"Bob. Please," he whispers, begging the other man to talk to him. He moves a hand up to cradle the other man's cheek, silently willing Bob to look at him. He opens his eyes, red-rimmed and teary.

"I can't..."

"Can't what?"

"Can't do it anymore. I just, I just can't, it's too fucking much," he cries, voice strained and uneasy.

"Bob, what is it that you can't do anymore?" He's worried again, because there's nothing in that sentence that means anything good, regardless of what exactly he's referring to. Bob is all tensed up again, nervous energy returned.

"It! You know, all of this," he says, sitting up and gesturing wildly, "just, everything. I just can't anymore George." The vague answer doesn't reassure George, who is really hoping that Bob doesn't mean what he thinks he means.

"Anything, I can't- I can't tie my shoelaces, can't write my name. It's just, too much, George," he pleads, begging him to understand. There's a wildness in his eyes that George doesn't like, some kind of desperation written in his features."It's like, like touching burning embers, you know? Like hot coals. I can't, anymore, it hurts." George's face just falls, because what can he possibly say to that? Then there's a certain kind of defeat that falls over Bob, he looks so damn lost and tired.

"Would you be mad at me?"

"For what?"

"If I ended it," he says it so causally, and it just breaks George's heart. He pulls him forward, and now it's George's turn to cry into the other's shoulder. He clings to him tightly, because he's just so goddamn afraid of losing Bob.

"Please, Bob, no," he sobs. "You can't, you just- you _can't_. I know what I'd _do_ , you can't." Bob is unmoving in his arms, processing George's reaction.

"I can't- I can't _not_ , George. I can't keep going like this..." 

"Christ, Bob, that's not the only way," he pleads.

"I can't find another way out, George. There _is_ no other way. I can't, something needs to fucking change, but like, everything- everything's gotta change. I've got no other way, George. Please, please don't be mad at me." His eyes are wide, searching. Damn near praying, with all that desperation and guilt. He seems to be on some kind of cliff, no way down but to jump, falling hundreds of feet down. 

George doesn't like Bob's manic energy, reminds him too much of all the things that Bob's taken that he doesn't know.

"Bobby, what have you been on today?" The question shocks Bob, a departure from the current topic.

"I don't know man," he rubs his eyes, maybe tired but more something else entirely, "I been on a lot of pills..."

"What pills?" Bob just shakes his head, names and chemicals escaping him. He doesn't know anymore. Maybe he used to, once upon a time, but it doesn't seem to matter so much now. 

"You can't keep doing this."

"I know." Then he goes far, distant, because George's prodding is making everything hurt again. He can't take it, knows George is just trying to help but right now, he needs something else, not this. He's already being questioned enough in his life, needs someone to just. Take him as he is. Feels like they're going in circles. God, and isn't that his whole life right now? Stuck, everything repeating, he can't find a way out except- 

But he doesn't want to hurt George, and he's so fucking scared. What kind of fiery furnace will he find, after everything he's done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's bad news and good news for this fic.  
> Bad news; I've decided that this seems like a good stopping point, it's the most natural conclusion I can find, and I don't have much more to say for this situation. Thus, no more chapters.  
> Good news; I think I'm going to make a little series for these, so more writing in the same basic timeline (whatever that means). If there's a scenario you want to see me write, I'm open to suggestions. Otherwise, the next thing I have planned is a piece about the motorcycle crash in '66.  
> Thanks for all of your support!

**Author's Note:**

> I might write more of this, depends on if anyone would be interested in that. Thanks for reading!


End file.
